I Will See It Done
by Carcy
Summary: Oneshot on Enjolras' father's thoughts when he found out about the barricades. A slightly different take on their relationship compared to the antagonistic one usually shown in fanfiction


Disclaimer: I don't own pretty much anything that you recognize!

A/N: May contain errors because I don't have a beta. Please review, I'd really appreciate some constructive criticism. Bear in mind though that it's my first fic so please be nice!

_Why did he do it? Did he care so little about life, about love… about his friends and family, about me? How could this happen? Why? _The thoughts in my head go round and round in an endless symphony, all questions and no answers. Scarcely three days since I received the news, yet I feel as though everything before was another life entirely. How can it be possible for anything to be the same again? It has all gone to a place I cannot reach, the place where he is now. Strange how a few cold, bald lines in black ink can take one's breath away and make one's world implode in a matter of seconds.

Three days. Three bleak days in which the world around me has ceased to matter, in which business concerns have been ignored, and well-wishers treated with barren courtesy. Phone calls have gone unanswered, letters and documents are stacked on my desk. I am sure my secretary despairs, but he knows better than to interfere. They all do. They may not be rich, these workers of mine, but that does not mean they are fools. After all, the working man may be downtrodden, he is almost certainly poor, he may be filthy and unkempt, but he is also both the brains and the backbone of this country, of France.

At least, that was what _he_ would have said, if he had been here. But he will never speak to me again. I am never to hear his voice again, nor see his face, nor ruffle his golden hair the way I used to do when he was a child. Even in dreams, although I see him walking towards me, smiling at me… when his lips part and I wait to hear him call, 'Father!' the dream ends. Then I wake, aching in the knowledge that I will never hear that word fall from his lips again.

_Why? _ The question burns in my brain, fermenting, filling my mind with poison. _He did not care_, it whispers. _He was selfish, your son. A thoughtless young fool caring for nothing beyond his own desires. _But these thoughts are ridiculous. My son, Alexis Enjolras, is.. _was_ anything but a thoughtless fool. I do not believe that he would have thrown his life away for no good reason, for there was a rhyme and reason to everything he did. Yet all the news I have is that he chose to end his own life by voluntarily joining a group of men who had been sentenced to death. He chose suicide. _Why? _Perhaps I will never know, and that hurts me more than all else. However, even if I do not know, I must hold fast to my faith in him; for if I do not, even the memories, which are all I have left, will be tarnished.

A knock on the door, and it opens. A boy enters my office.

'Monsieur Enjolras?'

I am about to dismiss him, but something stops me. His hair, golden and wavy, reminds me of Alexis. The rest of his face is nothing like. I know it well for I have seen him a thousand times, doing little jobs about the office. All the same I stare at him, willing to pretend, just for a moment, that this is my son.

'Monsieur?' The boy is eyeing me uncertainly now, as though unsure if I have gone mad. No doubt there have been rumours about that since the news broke of my son's passing.

I acknowledge him, and he places a letter on my desk. I dismiss him and revert back to my original occupation, sparing only the briefest glance for the mail. My eyes catch the handwriting on the envelope. I freeze. Blankly, numbly, I reach out for it. My fingers tremble as I slit the flap.

'Dear Father,' the letter begins. My eyes dart down the page, picking out words at random, rushing through it in my eagerness to know what he says. Later I will read it again, slowly, drinking in every word, but for now I cannot wait!

It seems like hours later when I finally set the letter down. Some of the words seem permanently etched in my brain. Barricade, revolution, republic, ideals, faith, friends. All of them words that darted out at me at once when I read the letter.

_Republic. _I cannot help but smile, albeit bitterly, at the irony. That word has been a recurrent theme in my life. When I was but a child, I heard whisperings of the great change, a Republic. A new system of governance that was to be the liberation of all the people. Alone among her peers, France would no longer bow down to the oppression of the absolute monarchy. The monarchy would no longer exist, and all citizens would be equal. France would be truly just, great and free!

I spent much time listening to my parents discussing the Republic. They wondered about the possibilities the coming regime might bring forth for an honest but poor factory worker and his wife, who minded other people's children to help eke out a living. I often listened while they, thinking me asleep, chatted in the inky darkness of our small rooms, unlit even by a candle. I could sense their excitement, their anticipation that the change would better our lives. Thus from the first, I was taught to believe that a Republic was a good thing for France.

It did not seem such a good thing a few years later, when we entered that turbulent period of our lives which went down in the history books as "The Reign of Terror". They said that those who had not supported the Revolution, and thus the Republic, must die! While my parents had not shown any support to the monarchy, neither had they declared their loyalty to the Republic. Therefore we huddled at home as much as possible, avoiding drawing attention to ourselves, afraid of being ensnared in the almost tangible web of fear.

All the same, we survived that hellish nightmare to emerge in a dictatorship. By this time, I was no longer a child accepting blindly, but a man who had learnt to see and think, and choose. As a young man, I faced all the scorn and depravity society had for those of little means and large ambitions. However by dint of sheer hard work and some great good luck, I worked my way up through the various positions. As my fortune grew, my social status rose accordingly, and soon enough I was accorded all the distinction society affords to a rich man.

Consumed though I was by work, and had been since my salad days, my son Alexis became my world the moment he was born. I had little else. The glittering success of my career had not come cheaply. It left little time for the typical romances of the wealthy Frenchman. I dropped my eyes before women, for I had no time for mistresses, no inclination for brief affairs, and no liking for brothels. Alexis's mother was a flighty creature whom I had loved and married in the first flush of romance, but swiftly discovered that I could not respect. She in her turn found me preoccupied and distant, and married life dreary and uninteresting. She left me soon after Alexis was born. I knew not where she went, but I hardly cared, aside from some concern as to how this might affect my son. I was determined that he should never suffer from the lack of her presence. All my love and attention were for him and him alone.

As the years passed, we grew as close as ever father and son had been. He was unlike other children, which worried me a little at times. He was too solitary. His favourite pastime was sitting in the library musing over old texts, then discussing them with me or his tutor.

I myself had a fierce passion for politics, so we spent hours together deliberating the state of affairs in France. I devoured every scrap of information I could obtain. My interest never waned, as I understood only too well the far-reaching consequences of politics on the life of the common man. I remembered the Republic, the thousands who had laid themselves down to die for the glorious vision which crumbled to dust. All the pain and death that the people had gone through, what was it for? In the end nothing changed, and I believed that nothing ever would.

Not so for my son. My habits influenced him to the extent that he too relished in political news, but although the news was identical, our take on it was vastly different. He was young and idealistic. He still felt that change was desirable, whereas I, having seen the devastation wreaked by the Revolution firsthand, shied away from the mere idea of further vicissitudes. He was convinced that a new Republic was the answer to the suffering of the people, and took great pains to convert me to his mode of thinking. He scrutinized the writings of Robespierre and Saint-Just, and all the great men of the Revolution, studying their strategies, their strengths and weaknesses, the mistakes which led to their eventual downfall. His tenacity never wavered. Many an evening he produced a fresh obscure text containing some valid point to support his theory, and expounded on it. He firmly believed that France should be a Republic. More than that, he believed that it was possible, not just a utopian dream.

I stand up, and walk over to the window. The street outside looks as it always does. How can it be so? Suddenly furious, my surroundings weave together in a distorted, glaring red haze. I snarl, and before I even notice it, my fist smashes into the wall. My son has _died_ for this country, these people, and all goes on as though nothing ever happened!

For I know now that is how it happened. It was no accident, no thoughtless walk into the line of fire, as the newspapers would have the people believe. The government must have commanded them to hush it up. He explains it all in his letter, about the underground revolutionary movement, the fight for freedom. He says that he has been involved in it ever since he first went to Paris, but never spoke of it for fear of worrying me, and for my own safety. He feared that if he was caught, the National Guard would have traced him to me, and who knows what might have happened then?

He tells me about his comrades in Les Amis de l'ABC. ABC… abaisse… a pun! A small chuckle escapes me. Oh my son, you are still able to bring me joy even when you are gone! Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Lesgle, Feuilly, Prouvaire, and the others… I wonder if any of them survived, those boys. I doubt it. It saddens me, though I have never known most of them, and never will now. They must all have had families who loved them. Parents, brothers and sisters, perhaps even lovers, who are suffering as I am suffering, waiting endlessly for those who will never come home again.

Unbidden, a few tears spill over, grazing my cheek and wetting the top sheet. I rub them away hurriedly, as I continue my perusal of his letter. It is a long one. He apologizes for what he is about to do. He knows he is not likely to survive, but he says that he must do it, for Patria. Fatherland. He begs for forgiveness, but he must have known even as he wrote it that I would not deny him, for when have I ever refused him anything? This though, is more difficult than anything I could have imagined. If I had known before it was too late, I would never have allowed it. I would have gone down on my knees and pleaded with him if necessary. My son, my only son… Why could you not have been more like other young men? Ask me for more money, for clothes, for jewels for your mistress, but not this!

To go on without him, to live without his love and the light of his presence… Can I do it? What choice do I have? I have paid dearly for encouraging his love for politics, those hours spent together building quixotic visions and dreams, and bitterly do I regret it!

I look down at the last page, the last few sentences.

"_Though it is likely we will all lose our lives tomorrow, our deaths will not be in vain. Others will rise to take our place. It is but a matter of time. One day, father, our dream will be fulfilled and everything we have spoken of will be a reality." _

I shake my head. Alexis, you have performed your duty to France admirably, but where was your duty to me? Do you not know that having you alive, with me still, is more important even than seeing France as a republic? Perhaps not. You have never been a parent, you cannot understand.

"_I realise my actions will hurt you, and once again I beg your forgiveness. I know that deep in your heart you will understand. The ideal is larger than me, than all of us, and my life counts for nothing if I do not use it in service of Patria." _

"_We will meet again. I love you."_

" _Vive la République!"_

The letter flutters to the floor. I drop back into my chair, feeling as though I have aged a hundred years. The room is dark and cold, and I cannot bear the emptiness. My thoughts are swirling, whirling into oblivion. Amidst the general confusion, a line from his letter leaps to the forefront of my mind. _Our deaths will not be in vain, others will rise to take our place…_

His words send a shiver down my spine. I set my jaw firmly. He is right. I may have lost my son, but his death, and those of his friends, will not be in vain. I will not allow it! The ideal is the only thing left for me now Alexis has gone. I can do much to see it fulfilled. My means are not limited in the way his were. Money talks, I am considered an important man and my influence is widespread. It is a dangerous business, but I am no fool. I know what needs to be done. I would not have done it before, for fear of the threat to Alexis's safety, but now there is nothing left that can frighten me.

Have no fear for Patria, my son. I swear to you, your work will not be abandoned, for I will see it done!


End file.
